Road to Zion
by Aireon Maris
Summary: The hunt for Abaddon is on. Sam and Dean race to take down the King of Hell before he can rip open Purgatory while the war in Heaven heats up. Now there's a new player on the board and no one quite knows her motivations...
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello! This is Angel of Truth #5. If you have been following the series, welcome back! If you've stumbled upon this by accident, why don't you read a bit and see if you're interested. Then, go back and read the first four. Things will make a bit more sense if you do. Start with "Little Girl Lost."

My thanks to the readers who have been patient with me since #1. You guys have been a great source of encouragement. And a huge shout-out and much gratitude to CFEditor, who has been my beta since chapter 17 of #4. Applause and virtual cake!

On with the motley!

XXXXX

It wasn't really that large of a room, tucked in the back of the Smithsonian Institute Building. It was filled with old and rare books, available only to those with some academic goal and express permission from the Institute. For the daughter of the philanthropist who made sizable yearly donations, however, every accommodation was made.

None of the others using the library ever talked to Mal, and she was fine with that. In fact, the only person she interacted with at all was the conservator who worked in the tiny library, a young man named Wendell. She didn't even know his last name.

She'd been making daily trips to the library for two months now, and had even had several books shipped there from around the world. Today she was working through a sixteenth-century German tome, the musty pages staining the fingertips of her cotton gloves. She skimmed over the hand-written words, easily translating in her head. One of the advantages of her new powers was that she could speed-read in any written language.

She stopped halfway down the page to reread the last sentence, lips moving slightly. A frown briefly creased her forehead, and then she pulled her notebook over. With careful, precise strokes, she copied the line down, translating it from German to Enochian. She tapped her pencil against her lips and set the German volume aside.

There were two stacks of books on the desk in front of her, and she ran her fingers down the spines until she found what she wanted and pulled it out. The book was little more than scraps of parchment in a leather folder. She opened it with extreme care, making sure not to bend the brittle pages.

A drop of bright red splashed on the back of her white glove, a bright stain against the pristine surface.

Mal blinked at it for a moment, frowning. Another impacted next to the first, throwing tiny red beads onto the surrounding fibers. Mal looked up.

The ceiling had vanished into roiling, green-black clouds. A man hung from a web of chains by ugly, metal hooks, one of which pierced his throat. Mal screamed and shoved backwards from the table, nearly falling when her chair tipped over. Regaining her feet, she cast her eyes around the library.

The light had turned crimson and the air was choked with the smell of hot metal and blood. The other scholars were all staring at Mal, their eyes inky-black and their features inhuman. Mal's first instinct was to summon her sword, but try as she might, she could not get it to materialize. She choked on the scent coating the back of her throat, and stumbled backwards.

She turned to flee but crashed into someone's chest. A hand closed over her bicep. She wrenched backwards. Abaddon stared down at her, his malevolent grin not reaching his cold, dark eyes. The red rose in his lapel blossomed like a bloodstain, the scent of it cloying and sickly.

"You can't run from me, darling," he purred at her. "You can never run from me."

A hand touched Mal's and it took everything in her power not to blast its owner across the room. She blinked and suddenly she was back in her chair, the light clear and industrial, the air clean and pure. Wendell was beside her, peering down at her with concern.

"Ms. Graves, you all right?" he asked, a slight West Virginia drawl in his voice. "You've been staring at the wall for a quarter of an hour."

Mal looked up at him and then quickly away. "I'm fine," she tried to say, but her voice broke. She cleared her throat. "I'm fine. Just tired."

That only made him look closer at her. "You don't look so well. Are you sleeping at all?"

Truth be told, Mal hadn't actually slept in over two months. Not more than an hour a night. But she wasn't going to tell him that and she resented him for prying. "I'm fine," she said again, a bit harshly, and pushed quickly to her feet. "I should get going." She grabbed her notebook and dodged around the bewildered Wendell.

"Oh, well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow," he said, but she was already to the door and beyond.

She paused as soon as she was outside, surrounded by the familiar sounds of DC. She could see the Washington Monument not far away, one of the easiest landmarks of the city. The sun had long ago set and there was a chill to the breeze, but Mal felt no discomfort. Her skin burned uncomfortably hot like it always did these days. She hugged her notebook to her chest and waited.

It didn't take long for her minder to arrive. Stephen appeared in front of her, taking care not to startle her. The last time he had, she'd nearly put her sword through his chest. "Are you finished?" he asked.

Mal looked up at the angel. He was tall, a bit taller than Cas, but not as tall as Sam. He was dressed all in black, from his cargo pants to his knee-length coat, which made Mal wonder who his vessel had been.

"Yeah," she replied softly. "Take me home."

Stephen stepped closer to her, laying a hand on her shoulder, and spread his wings. They were tan and black, barred like an owl's. A moment later, Mal was in her bedroom, in her mother's penthouse condo. She shivered briefly. The cool glass and metal had nothing of the warmth of Bobby's home.

"Do you wish me to stay?" Stephen asked, dropping his hand from her shoulder.

Mal shook her head. "No, it's okay. Cas needs you. I'll see you in the morning." Stephen nodded and vanished again. He was a combat medic, his powers geared to fast-and-dirty healing, and his abilities were sorely needed on the battlefields.

As soon as he left, however, Mal felt his absence acutely. He was her only contact with her other life, those brief months she'd lived in the supernatural world. There were moments she was glad she was here, and safe, but they were few and far between. Mostly there was an ache of loss and betrayal at even the memory of those five months.

He'd called, once. Three weeks after she'd arrived in DC. But she'd still been too angry, too hurt, to speak to him. He hadn't called again.

There was an unfamiliar voice coming from the living room, female, so Mal sighed, placed her notebook on her desk with the others, and trudged out into the hall. The walls were adorned with sigils and symbols, some of them drawn in blood. There were even Enochian seals carved into the glass of every window.

The TV was on, the only light in the living room, its flickering luminescence lending an eerie look to the darkness. Mal paused in the doorway. She could hear the sound of soft breathing and she could smell the faint remnant of her mother's favorite perfume. She circled the couch to see Irene stretched out and fast asleep. Mal shook her head and reached for the remote, but when she belatedly realized what was playing on the TV, she froze.

"...The grand jury hearing for Mallory Graves reached a verdict this morning on the six deaths caused by the young woman during her mysterious disappearance. After testimony from several witnesses and Graves herself, the jury found the deaths to be in self-defense and ruled them justified. Though Ms. Graves and her family have declined our requests for interviews, Special Agent Aaron Hotchner of the FBI, who was lead investigator of the case in Boston where Graves was found, has issued the following statement."

The image on the TV switched from the journalist to the profiler, who spoke with a solemn expression. "Mallory has been through a series of traumatic events that forced her to fight to survive. We all wish that our children would never have to make the decisions that she did, but she was strong, and she made it through."

The TV image fuzzed out for a moment before clicking off. Mal looked down at the remote that she hadn't used and put it back on the side table. No doubt the power in the whole apartment had gone out. Mal would have to reset the breakers—again. She was really going to have to get this EMF thing under control.

"Mallory?"

Mal looked down to see her mother stirring. She put her hand on Irene's shoulder. "Yeah, Mom," she murmured. "It's me."

"What happened?" Irene asked, blinking around at the living room. "Why is it so dark?"

Mal could see just fine, every detail as sharp and clear as if it had been broad daylight. Irene, however, was limited to human vision, so Mal stretched out her other hand and concentrated for a moment. Her fingertips gradually began to glow. The light spread down to her palm and brightened until it was enough for Irene to see by.

"It's okay," Mal assured her mother. "I didn't mean to. I'll just go throw the breakers. Wait here." She took her mother's wrist and, concentrating once more, transferred the light from her hand to Irene's. It immediately started to fade, but Mal knew from experience it would last long enough for her to get to the breaker box. Sure enough, Mal was back just as the glow faded completely. She turned on the lamp.

Irene looked up at her daughter. "Oh, sweetheart. You look terrible."

Mal snorted. "Gee, thanks, Mom. Just what I needed to hear."

Irene got to her feet and crossed over to Mal. She cupped the young woman's cheek with one hand. "Are you sleeping at all?"

Mal shrugged one shoulder. "Not really," she replied flatly. "The nightmares come when I'm awake, now."

"Maybe if you would take something," Irene tried to suggest, but Mal's expression darkened and she pulled away from her mother's touch.

"No drugs," Mal said firmly. "I've told you that before."

"Yes, but I'm sure we could find something that won't affect—"

"Good night, Mom," Mal interrupted, and turned on her heel. When she reached her bedroom, she closed the door and leaned against it. Her mother didn't deserve that sort of treatment. Mal knew that, but she couldn't help herself. Irene just simply couldn't_ understand_ what it was like. Drugs were not going to help her at this point.

Mal pushed away from the door and headed toward the bathroom. Her mother had tried everything. She'd even convinced Mal to see a therapist. That hadn't ended well. The whole city block had been without power for six hours. She turned on the bathroom light out of habit rather than need and was confronted by her reflection in the mirror.

Her white-blonde hair was finally long enough to look like a normal, if boyish, haircut. She'd also gained a few much-needed pounds to soften the bony edges of her body. But her skin was as pale as ever, and now had an almost translucent, ashen quality. Purple shadows hung under her silver-gray eyes and her face was drawn and weary. Mal gripped the edge of the sink and let her shoulders slump, head lolling forward.

Seven and a half months ago, she had been normal. Average. Boring. Then a convicted rapist had kidnapped her from her college campus. It had gotten worse from there. Never in her wildest imaginings could she have ever dreamed she would be the vessel of an angel, veteran of the Apocalypse, embroiled in a celestial war, ally of Heaven, and survivor of Hell.

Oh, and over three months pregnant.

Mal's fingers tightened on the sink until the ceramic began to creak in protest. She raised her head and met her own gaze in the mirror, her eyes now storm-dark. "Abaddon is not getting me," she whispered. "He is not getting my child. I will kill him myself. He is not. Taking. My. Baby."

The mirror cracked suddenly, a spiderweb of dark lines fanning across the surface. Startled, Mal jumped backwards, pressing one hand to her mouth. Tears started in her eyes and she slid to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest.

She stayed there the rest of the night.

XxxXxxX

The angel alighted just outside the old, empty motel, folding his rust-colored wings behind his back. He reached out with his senses. He detected a single heartbeat, no doubt the person who had performed the summoning. It was incredibly uncommon for a human to perform a summoning, so he had been dispatched to investigate. This was far from an ideal assignment, and he just wanted to get it done so he could return to the war.

With an expression of tight-lipped impatience, the angel strode forward, gesturing at the locked front doors. The chain snapped and the doors creaked inwards, allowing him entry. The interior of the foyer was dim and dusty. In the middle of the floor was a summoning circle, the bowl of incense still smoking. But the human was nowhere to be seen. The angel frowned and reoriented himself. The human—male, mid adolescence—was a few rooms over. He could not have performed the summoning.

The angel nudged the bronze bowl with the toe of his shoe. If the human boy hadn't summoned him, then who had? Then a shiver of shock ran down the angel's spine.

His power was gone. Before he had even noticed, before he could stop it, his power had simply vanished. He tried to pull from his Grace, but couldn't reach it. Even his wings were limp and still on his shoulders.

A faint click at his back made him whirl around, instinctively calling for a sword that didn't appear. A woman stood in the now-closed doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. She was of average height and appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent, her skin olive and her curly hair dark. Her mahogany-colored eyes stared evenly at the angel, neither fear nor surprise in their depths.

"Who are you?" the angel hissed angrily. "What have you done?"

"Just what I do best," the woman replied, not moving from her post by the door. "And I think you know what I am."

It took the angel a little longer to make the connection. His face darkened with horror and contempt. "_Abomination_," he spat. "How did you survive?"

"Quite well, thank you," the woman replied easily. "And for simplicity's sake, I prefer to be called Miriam."

"Release me at once, or I will smite you where you stand," the angel ordered imperiously.

"We both know that's a bluff," Miriam said, unfolding her arms. "You're completely helpless. I could kill you with this if I wanted to." She hefted a hunting knife in one hand.

The angel's eyes narrowed. "What do you want with me?"

"Information," Miriam said. "Answer my questions, and I'll let you go."

"Why should I believe you?" the angel sneered.

Miriam shrugged. "Not like you have much of a choice," she pointed out.

The angel drew himself up proudly. "I would never make a deal with the likes of you."

She sighed. "Okay. I tried to play nice." She strode forward and the angel, immediately rethinking his words, backed away warily. "You know, torturing information out of demons isn't all that easy," Miriam said casually. "They are born in agony, so they have a pretty high tolerance. Angels...not so much." Her hand flicked out and the angel cried out in surprise and pain.

The handle of the hunting knife protruded from his shoulder. It hurt far worse than it should, a red-hot, throbbing pain that demanded all his attention. He grabbed the knife and tried to pull it out, but that only intensified the pain. Then Miriam reached him and she yanked the knife out roughly. The angel cried out again and stumbled backwards. Miriam helped him along with a jab to the breastbone. He collapsed onto the ground, flat on his back.

Miriam pressed the heel of her boot on the injury and leaned her weight forward. A scream ripped itself from the angel's throat. She leaned down. "Who commands the host?" she demanded. "The Apocalypse is over, Michael is in the Pit. Is it Raphael? Did Gabriel return? Who is it?"

The angel writhed, trying vainly to pry her foot from his wounded shoulder. He cursed her in Enochian and she ground her heel down harder. "Answer the question," she growled.

"Raphael," the angel finally admitted through clenched teeth. "I serve Raphael."

Miriam considered that for a moment. "Then why haven't Michael and Lucifer been released? Raphael would not have allowed them to fall, nor to stay captured."

"As if you don't know," the angel sputtered.

Miriam grimaced and kicked her heel against the knife wound. "I stay out of angel business, you know this. Tell me what is going on."

"War," hissed the angel. "There is war in Heaven between the archangels. Are you pleased, Abomination? You may yet witness our downfall."

Miriam was taken aback by his words. "War? Between Raphael and Gabriel?"

"Gabriel is dead," the angel told her scathingly. "It is Castiel who leads the rebels."

Miriam's eyes widened and her jaw fell slack for a moment before she recovered herself. "Castiel," she whispered, barely audible. Then she shook her head and stepped back, releasing the angel. He got to his feet laboriously, pressing one hand to the bleeding wound in his shoulder.

"You have what you need," he growled. "Release me."

Miriam's eyes flicked to his face. "I can't have Heaven knowing I survived," she said.

"You gave your word!" the angel protested.

"I lied," Miriam replied flatly, and lunged. The blade of the knife slid smoothly through the angel's throat. He didn't even have time to react before he was dead. The body crumpled to the ground, empty and lifeless. There was no detonation of Grace, no charred wing prints. It was no more than a human corpse.

Miriam grimaced in distaste and cleaned her knife off before sliding it into her boot. Then, without looking back, she left the foyer and headed down the line of doors. She had an appointment to keep.

XxxXxxX

It was a testament to his upbringing that Sam was able to block out all distractions and focus on his work. He shared his booth table with his laptop, bag, and four or five empty beer bottles (not all his). Elsewhere in the bar, he knew that Dean was hustling a couple of bikers at poker while Jo rigged the deck for him. All Sam had asked was that he be left alone for a couple of hours.

The computer program he was working with had originally been developed by a man of questionable sobriety and poor choice in hairstyles. But Ash had been a genius despite his shortcomings, and the program had ended up getting him killed. It had then been relegated to a disc in a forgotten pocket of Sam's computer bag until necessity had called it forth again.

More recently, a wheelchair-bound young man in Vermont had taken it up, adding and expanding it to suit Sam and Dean's current needs. Sam entered the new information he, Jo, and Dean had gleaned over the last week, and watched it run.

Two and a half months. It had been over ten weeks since they'd started hunting Abaddon in earnest, and so far, they hadn't come close. They'd cleaned out five demon nests, but they'd only been fringe dwellers, mooks, or neutral trouble-mongers. Nothing that would give them a lead on Abaddon's whereabouts.

While their respective children were chasing down the king of Hell, Mary and Ellen were searching for any information they could find on Purgatory. They were currently in a tiny monastery in the French Alps, transported courtesy of whatever angel happened to be available at the time.

Sam tried not to be impatient. He tried really, really hard. But every time they tracked down a lead and it turned up dead ends_ again_ his frustration ratcheted up another notch. He glanced away from the computer screen to his cell phone.

He'd tried calling her once. Exactly once, three weeks after her mother had taken her to DC. She hadn't answered, and hadn't returned his call. He hadn't tried again. After all, what he'd done was unforgivable. Yes, Castiel had been the one to actually knock her out so her mother could get her on the airplane, but Sam had been there and he hadn't stopped it. So he was the one she was going to blame. He grimaced. And Mallory really had been kidnapped enough in her lifetime.

A full bottle of beer landed on the table in front of him, carried by a hand that was neither Dean's nor Jo's. "No, thanks," Sam said without looking up.

"You haven't even heard my offer," replied a dry, female voice.

Sam sighed through his nose and lifted his gaze. Middle Eastern, medium height, black leather jacket, intelligent eyes. Perhaps tempting once, but not anymore. "I'm sorry, but I'm really not interested," he said firmly.

Ignoring him, the woman slid into the booth opposite Sam and propped her elbows on the table. "I've been watching you for the last hour," she told him frankly. "Do you realize that at least four of the women in this bar are literally drooling over you?"

Sam met her gaze coolly without blushing. "Still not interested," he repeated.

"Good, 'cause neither am I," the woman said. "Did you know you've been followed for the last five days?"

Sam stared at her for a moment. He dropped his hand below the table, reaching for the gun concealed under his jacket. The woman's eyes darted down and then back up. "I wouldn't, if I were you," she said. "There are cameras here. And bullets aren't gonna do much to me."

"Who are you?" Sam demanded harshly.

"Miriam Zahavy," she replied. "And I've been tracking the things that've been following you. Couldn't figure out what the hell they were doing until I ran across you and your friends by accident." She tilted her head, staring at him with her dark eyes. "Not surprised they were interested. I could smell the angel on you a mile off."

Sam glanced over at Dean to see if he could get his brother's attention but he was focused on his poker game. He returned his gaze to Miriam. "What the hell are you?"

"A hunter, just like you," she said easily. "Little older. Little wiser. I've been on the trail of a pair of demon assassins for nearly a week now. But I lost them last night. Just vanished. Thought I'd give you a head's up."

Sam didn't relax, one hand still on his gun and his gaze wary. "Fine. Thanks."

Miriam pushed to her feet. "Watch your back, Sam Winchester," she said, and sauntered away. Sam waited until she left the bar before slamming his laptop closed, shoving it into his bag, and crossing over to where Dean and Jo sat. He grabbed Dean's shoulder and leaned in to tell him in a low voice, "Let's go."

Dean frowned up at him. "What's wrong?"

"Demons," Sam murmured back. Dean immediately threw down his cards, announced he was out, and beckoned Jo with a jerk of his head. The three of them retreated back to the Impala.

"Where?" Dean demanded tersely, getting ready to open the trunk and get to their weapons.

Sam shrugged. "I dunno. Close."

"How d'you know?" Jo asked, checking the parking lot over her shoulder.

Sam briefly described his conversation with Miriam.

"Fantastic," Dean said feelingly. "Just what we need. You leave anything important back at the motel?"

"Just my lucky socks," Jo replied wryly.

"A book," Sam said.

Dean shrugged. "Leave it. Let's get outa here."

"Can't leave it," Sam shook his head. "It's the only book on Purgatory Mom and Ellen have found so far."

"_Shit_, Sam," Dean burst out. "Come on!"

"I thought it'd be safer than dragging it all over the Goddamn place!" Sam snapped back.

"All right!" Jo yelled, raising her hands. "We gotta go back for the book. We'll just have to be prepared."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: To quote Douglas Adams, I love deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they pass by.

There's only so many times I can apologize for being so late to post. I hope you can continue to forgive me. I won't make any promises, because the next few weeks are going to be crazy due to my brother getting married. I will, however, make every effort to continue working on this story.

As always, deepest gratitude to my wonderful beta, Woman of Letters (formerly known as CFEditor) without whom I never would have finished Time of Angels. *Applause*

XXXXX

Miriam waited until the Winchesters and their friend left the bar before heading back to the Jeep. She climbed into the driver's side but didn't immediately start the engine. She had a few moments to spare, and she knew where the Winchesters were staying. As the silence stretched, she sighed and closed her eyes briefly.

"Okay. Out with it. What's wrong?" she demanded. All that answered her was more silence. She twisted around to look into the back seat. "Jeremy, I'm serious. I'm done with the pouting."

The teenage boy crossed his arms and glared at her. His thatch of dark hair fell over his dark eyes, almost but not quite hiding their expression. Miriam glared back. "I told you why we left Israel," she said. "It's not the first time we've had to move."

Jeremy still didn't say anything. Miriam huffed impatiently. "I don't have time for this right now. I've got two upper-class demons to deal with, so you are going to stay in the car until I say it's safe, understood?" Jeremy replied with more glaring. Miriam turned away and started the car.

"If I do this, if we take care of this last thing, we won't have to move around so much," she told him as she pulled out of the bar's parking lot. "We can find someplace to settle down permanently." There was more silence from the back seat. Miriam slammed her hand against the steering wheel. "Dammit, Jeremy! You haven't said a word since we got here. Give me something!"

"_Lech __l'Azazel,_" Jeremy muttered in Hebrew.

"Jeremy!" Miriam snapped. "That is not acceptable!"

"I don't understand the limits of social interaction," Jeremy mumbled.

She glared at him through the rearview mirror. "That hasn't been an excuse since you were six."

"Why?" Jeremy demanded bluntly, uncrossing his arms and leaning forward against his seatbelt.

"Because you're old enough to know better," Miriam told him.

"No. Why are you helping that demon? Demons are bad. We don't like demons. You say it all the time. 'Never trust a demon, Jeremy.'"

Miriam closed her eyes briefly and sighed. "Because it's a way out," she said quietly. "We can be done. For good. No more hunting." She glanced back at him through the mirror. His expression had gone contemplative.

"We'll go back to Israel?" he asked after a moment.

"We can go wherever you want. Promise."

He sat back, plucking at the belt over his chest, and considered her words. "I'm sorry for cursing at you," he said dutifully. She nodded her acceptance. Silence fell again, but it wasn't strained this time. Miriam pulled the Jeep over a block from the Winchester's motel and killed the engine. She turned around to face Jeremy.

"Stay here," she said firmly. "Don't leave the car unless I come to get you, or—"

"My safety necessitates otherwise," Jeremy parroted back. "I know."

"Right," Miriam said, and picked up her sword from the passenger seat. She exited the Jeep and closed the door as quietly as she could. As she turned to walk away, Jeremy cranked the window down.

"Mom," he called. She turned back to look at him. "Be careful," he said.

She grinned lopsidedly at him and saluted him with her sword. Then she turned and jogged away.

XxxXxxX

The blonde woman strode across the motel parking lot, every line of her body screaming anger. The man easily overtook her and grabbed her arm. She spun around towards him and slapped him across the face. Startled, he let her go.

"Don't you dare touch me, you bastard!" she shrieked. "Not after what you did!"

"Aw, come on, babe, don't be like that," the man cajoled.

"Don't be like what?" she demanded. "Furious? I think I have the right to be furious!"

Sam could hear Dean and Jo continue their mock argument as he wriggled through the bathroom window into their motel room. Hopefully they could provide enough of a distraction for him to get the book and get out of there.

He paused at the bathroom door, listening for the sounds of breathing or movement that would indicate the room was occupied. Hearing nothing, he slipped into the room beyond. Jo's duffel was under the table, so Sam swung that up onto his shoulder before reaching for the Purgatory tome. As soon as he picked it up, a flash of red caught the corner of his eye. He turned to see what it was.

"Oh, crap," Sam breathed, his eyes widening. The blood used to paint Abaddon's sigil onto the wall still glistened. Sam bolted for the door. He had no idea how long he had. The last time he'd seen the sigil, they'd barely been able to clear the building before it blew.

He yanked the door open and almost ran into Miriam, who was standing just on the other side. She looked up at Sam, startled, and then beyond him into the room. She froze at the sight of Abaddon's seal.

"Run," she instructed. "Go! I can hold it off for a few minutes, no more."

Sam considered questioning her on that, and on the short sword she was holding naked in one hand, but decided that now really wasn't the time. "The rooms next door," he began, but Miriam shook her head.

"Empty, I checked. Go, Sam! Now!"

Sam brushed past the woman and took off toward his brother and Jo. They caught sight of him and immediately dropped the act. Sam reached them and grabbed Jo's arm. "Come on, we gotta go," he said tightly, pushing Jo ahead of him. "This place is about to blow."

Dean was already moving toward the Impala. "How long do we got?" he demanded.

Sam was about to reply when the motel room behind them exploded, sending fire and debris into the air. He stumbled and Jo would have fallen, but Sam was still holding her arm, so he managed to keep her on her feet.

All three of them turned to look back at the explosion. It had taken out their room and the two on either side, but the rest of the motel was more or less untouched. A few people stumbled out of their rooms, coughing from the smoke. Sam didn't see Miriam.

Dean suddenly cursed and Sam whirled around just in time to dodge a metal pipe being swung at his head. There were two of them, one male and one female. The irises of their eyes had already faded out, marking them as demon assassins.

Dean had grabbed hold of the male's weapon and they were struggling back and forth. Sam snatched his pistol from his waistband out of instinct more than anything else, since plain bullets would barely slow a demon down. But they would distract it. So he put two in the female demon's chest.

She stopped in her tracks, staring down at the bullet holes in confusion. Blood blossomed across her shirt. The metal pipe clanged to the ground, and then the demon collapsed in a heap. She didn't move again.

Sam and Jo stared down at the demon in surprise, caught completely off-guard. Dean grunted in pain and Sam snapped back to the present. The male demon had freed his metal pipe and swung it at Dean, who'd caught it on one forearm. Sam lifted his pistol again and shot the demon in the face. Like its counterpart, it dropped without a sound.

"The hell?" Dean asked, just as stunned as Sam and Jo.

"I don't know, man," Sam replied.

"But they were definitely demons?" Jo asked, only the slightest quiver in her voice.

"Yeah," Dean swallowed. "Saw their eyes."

Approaching footsteps prompted Sam and Dean to whip their guns around. A gangly-limbed teenager skidded to a halt at the sight of the guns, raising his empty hands. "Where's my mom?" he demanded, dark eyes flickering around.

Sam shifted his aim away from the boy. "What?" he asked, frowning.

"My mom," he repeated impatiently. "She came to help you. Where is she? I saw the explosion, and there's more demons coming, and I need to know she's okay. Where is she?"

Sam looked back at the motel, his heart sinking. Dean shoved his gun back into place and strode over to the boy. "Look, kid," Dean said. "You need to get out of here. It's not safe." He tried to put his hand on the boy's shoulder, but he flinched away from Dean's touch.

"Where is my mom?" the boy demanded shrilly. "She was supposed to be here!"

"Jeremy, I'm all right. Calm down." Miriam limped over to them, smelling strongly of smoke. Her leather jacket was singed and there were soot stains on her face. The boy darted over to her side but, rather than hugging her, he merely poked her shoulder with an expression of relief on his face. Miriam smiled and poked him back.

"I was worried," Jeremy said. "I saw the explosion and I knew you'd be close by, you're always close by, and there are more demons coming, and—"

"More?" Miriam cut him off sharply. "How many?"

"Six, maybe seven, I don't know," Jeremy replied, twitching his head. "I can't read demons and if the host is already dead—"

"I know, I know," Miriam cut him off again. She looked over at Sam. "You up for round two?"

"Whoa, just hang on," Dean interrupted. "Who the hell are you again?"

Miriam flicked her sword impatiently. "My name is Miriam, and this is my son Jeremy. I'm the one who warned Sam about the demons after you. We can continue this conversation later. In the meantime, let's get out of way of the firefighters, shall we?"

Sam glanced back at the motel. "Probably a good idea," he agreed. "Let's go, Dean."

Dean glared at Miriam. "I don't trust her," he muttered to Sam. "And those demons going down like that...it's too weird, man."

"Yeah, I know," Sam agreed. "But time and place."

Dean wasn't happy. It was all over his face. He glanced at Jo, who just shrugged helplessly. "All right, fine," he growled, and turned back to Miriam, who'd been waiting. "Let's go."

Miriam smiled tightly and gestured with her sword. "Lead the way."

They'd made it about a hundred feet before the first demon lunged out of hiding towards Jeremy. The boy let out a strangled yelp of surprise and recoiled backwards, tripping over his own feet and falling on his rearquarters. Miriam executed a perfect lunge over her son and impaled the demon through its stomach. She whipped her blade free before the demon could react. It clutched at the wound, blood spilling through its fingers, and then, like the other two, it simply dropped without a sound.

"The hell is going on?" Dean demanded, his gun out and tracking. There was no time for a reply before another six demons descended on them at once.

Sam took a chance and shot the nearest one. The bullet caught it in the shoulder, knocking it back a pace. It stared at the wound in horror, and then howled in pain and stumbled away. Sam looked for his next target but was caught completely off guard when a demon hit him in the back of the head with a baseball bat.

Sam went down hard, fighting to stay conscious. The demon kicked him in the stomach and raised the bat again.

XxxXxxX

Mallory was in the shower when pain exploded from the back of her skull. She had acquired a ridiculously high tolerance to pain along with the rest of her angel powers, but this took her by surprise. She lost her balance on the slick floor and fell, curling up as more pain ripped through her stomach. She gasped desperately, breathed in water, and choked.

Instinctively, Mal reached for her Grace to heal the pain, even though she knew that it wasn't hers, that she wasn't wounded. The power lept up at her call, flooding her body so completely that her skin shone. The bathroom lights flickered wildly, sending shadows racing around the walls.

Mal gathered her power and shoved it at the pain, artless and careless, simply trying to drown it out. The Grace heard her command, and went.

XxxXxxX

The blinding pain in Sam's head vanished as abruptly as if someone had thrown a switch. His vision cleared in time to see the baseball bat descending towards his face again, and he rolled out of the way. It thudded to the ground inches from his head, and Sam grabbed it.

The demon grunted in annoyance and tried to tug his weapon free, but Sam tore it from his grasp and scrambled to his feet. The demon looked confused and scared, and threw up a hand to blast Sam off his feet. Nothing happened. The demon's eyes widened. Sam hefted the bat and took a step forward, but the demon turned on his heel and sprinted off.

"Huh," Sam said, watching the demon flee. He lowered the bat and looked around. Jo was staring at the four corpses on the ground, aiming her shotgun at the nearest as if waiting for it to get back up again. Dean was scanning the darkness around them, pistol and flashlight at eye level. Miriam was crouching in front of Jeremy, who was sitting on the ground. She was helping him with breathing exercises of some kind.

Dean looked Sam up and down when he joined the others. "You okay, man?" Dean demanded. "You're bleeding."

Sam reached up and probed the back of his head gingerly. His hair was wet and his fingers came away red. "I feel fine," he said, frowning. He should have a concussion.

"This is just getting better and better," Dean muttered. He lowered his pistol and marched over to Miriam. "Hey, you. I want answers. Now."

Miriam looked up, completely unconcerned by Dean's aggressiveness. She turned back to Jeremy. "You okay, now?"

He nodded silently. Miriam touched his shoulder lightly and stood. "We have about ten minutes until the police arrive. Three questions, no more. Then we leave."

"Who the hell are you?" Dean demanded.

"I already told you that," Miriam said mildly.

"Fine. _What_ are you?" Dean corrected himself.

"I'm a demigod," Miriam replied, tilting her head slightly.

"Demigod?" Dean echoed.

"Child of a god," Sam supplied. "Usually by a human."

Dean turned to glare at Sam. "Yeah. I know that, Encyclopedia Brown." He turned back to Miriam. "The thing with the demons. What's up with that?"

"My particular ability is to create a supernatural dead zone about fifty feet around myself," she said, glancing back down at Jeremy. She murmured something to him in a different language. He nodded. Miriam looked back up.

"And by dead zone you mean...?" Dean prompted.

"All manner of supernatural creature, be they demon or other monster, lose all power or abilities when they come close to me," Miriam said. "And that was your third question. Jeremy, we need to go."

Dean stepped forward as Jeremy got to his feet. "Listen, you cannot just walk away like this-"

"Actually, I can," Miriam replied, glaring at Dean. "I don't answer to you and I've just saved your life. My son and I are leaving, but you will be seeing us again. Good night." She put her hand on Jeremy's shoulder and began walking. Dean started forward as if to stop her, but Sam and Jo grabbed him at the same time.

"She's right, Dean," Jo said softly. "She saved our lives. Just let her go."

Dean glared at the direction the two strangers had left in. "I don't trust her," he growled.

"Neither do I," Sam said. "But we owe her one."

Dean sent one last glare off into the darkness and turned to Sam. "How are you not concussed right now?" he demanded. He forced Sam to turn around to examine the wound on the back of his head. "Your scalp is split open."

"I feel fine," Sam protested again, probing at the wound again. Even his exploration didn't cause any discomfort. He rubbed the blood off onto his jeans.

"You should still get cleaned up and get ice on that," Jo said with a frown. Dean sighed wearily.

"We need to skip town," he said. "We'll stop to get gas and lick our wounds. I think it's time to head back to Bobby's."

"Yeah," Sam murmured thoughtfully, looking back over his shoulder at the motel. "We need to find some answers."

XxxXxxX

Mal regained consciousness to the sound of her mother's voice. She opened her eyes blearily and gasped when two spikes of agony drove into her skull. She managed to turn over before throwing up. She hadn't eaten in over ten hours, so all that came up was saliva and bile.

"Mallory?" Irene called fretfully, patting her daughter's back. "Honey, what happened? Are you okay?"

Her head ached like someone had smashed it with a sledgehammer, and her stomach muscles were taut with pain. The water clinging to her bare skin made her shiver with cold. Irene grabbed a towel and covered her up.

"Sweetie, talk to me," Irene said. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," Mal said thickly. "I need...I need to lie down."

Irene dried Mallory off and dressed her like a child before assisting her into her rarely-used bed. The last thing she saw before losing consciousness again was Stephen leaning over her with a troubled expression.

XxxXxxX

Mary didn't speak much French, and her German was pretty bad, too. But thankfully her Latin was nearly flawless, and the residents of the monastery were very traditional. The monks mostly left her and Ellen to their work, asking no questions after Kadmiel had spoken to the Abbot.

The library was cold, despite the multiple fireplaces all housing blazing flames. The stone walls were reluctant to release the chill of winter even though spring was mostly gone. This far up in the mountains, it was never truly warm.

Mary was grateful to have an angel checking in on them. Since their last location had been in Lebanon, they had found themselves with a sudden need for warmer clothing, and Kadmiel had brought them everything they required.

The angel checked on them every day, sometimes staying only moments. She had arrived that morning, however, and hadn't yet left, even though it was well after noon. Ellen looked up from the tome she and Mary were struggling to translate from Old Norse. Kadmiel was perusing the shelves, gaze drifting over the ancient volumes.

"Isn't there somewhere you need to be?" Ellen asked, not unkindly. "I don't mean to pry, but everything I've heard about the war sounds serious."

Kadmiel didn't look around. "I sustained an injury last night. Castiel will not allow me to return to the battlefield until I am fully recovered."

Mary's eyebrows jumped. "I'm so sorry. Are you in pain?"

Kadmiel took a deep breath, rolled her shoulders, and then exhaled slowly. "Not considerably," she said mildly. "Several bones were broken in my right wing. An angel who cannot fly is vulnerable. To fight with injured wings is extremely risky." She tilted her head and selected a book. "I believe this might be of use," she said, her tone never changing. "Do either of you speak Urdu?"

Mary and Ellen exchanged amused glances, but before they could reply, there was a muffled crash in the distance. Kadmiel dropped the book, uncaring of its value, and drew her sword. She was already at the door before Ellen or Mary could get to their feet.

"Stay here," the angel instructed firmly. "Castiel will be furious if either of you are harmed."

"What is it?" Mary demanded.

"You sense something?" Ellen asked at the same time.

Kadmiel glanced back at the two women with dark eyes. "I don't know, yet," she said softly, and opened the door.

The scent of sulfur struck them like a blow.


	3. Chapter 3

Kadmiel disappeared through the doorway into the corridor beyond. Mary and Ellen exchanged a silent look before both of them reached under the table and retrieved their shotguns. Ellen beat Mary to the door, but the younger woman wasn't far behind. They saw Kadmiel turn the far corner and hurried after the angel.

The door nearest them flew off its hinges, knocking Ellen off her feet. Mary backpedaled, snapping her shotgun up just in time. A robed monk lunged toward her, teeth bared and eyes soot-black. The first salt blast caught him in the face and he stumbled, shrieking in pain. As he clawed frantically at his eyes, Mary hauled Ellen to her feet and they booked it down the corridor.

There was a crash ahead of them, a scream of rage, and the thud of a body meeting unyielding stone. Mary rounded the corner while Ellen covered her back.

Kadmiel stood over the body of two more demons, blood dripping from her sword. Her other hand clutched at her side, and she was breathing heavily. The abbot faced off with the angel, his eyes faded out to white and blood staining the front of his robes. He, too, was holding an angel blade, and, like Kadmiel's, it dripped blood.

The demon noticed the two human women and nodded almost pleasantly, smiling faintly. "Ah, yes," he said in a heavy German accent. "I will be with you soon. A moment, please."

"Run," Kadmiel instructed without looking away from the demon. "I've already called for reinforcements. Go now."

"Fat chance of that," Ellen muttered, racked a round, and blew a hole in the demon's chest with iron buckshot.

The demon screamed so loud that Mary's ears ached. She reached up to press her hand against her head as the noise increased beyond bearable. Then an invisible force slammed into her chest, picking her up off her feet and flinging her into the air. She hit the stone wall hard enough to knock the air from her lungs and rebounded onto the floor. Her gun flew from her grasp.

Mary struggled to pick herself up, but the world would not stop spinning, and her ears rang so loud she couldn't hear her own voice when she called for Ellen. She blinked hard and forced her eyes to focus. Ellen was lying just out of reach, cradling her head in her hands. Kadmiel had fallen to one knee, but her sword was still clutched in her hand.

The demon stalked slowly towards the three women, past the corpses of his fallen brethren. He folded his hands in front of his waist, under the horrible wound that exposed his ribcage.

"You would use iron on me?" he challenged, the corners of his mouth turned down. "Puling worm! Do you know who I am? I am Asmodeus, a prince of Hell, and I am stronger than your little tricks. Salt and iron will not stop me. Nor, I think, will this angel." He stopped in front of Kadmiel, looking down at her with his empty eyes.

"I have tasted the blood of archangels," he boasted. "Do you think one such as you could hope to best me?"

Kadmiel remained still, head hanging and chest heaving. The floor was feeling a little more stable, so Mary decided to risk trying to stand. Her legs felt shaky, but she wasn't falling over. She saw her shotgun and started edging toward it, keeping one eye on Asmodeus.

"Heaven must be in dire straits indeed if it cannot send more than one single little soldier to guard the mother Winchester," the demon went on, flicking the tip of his sword this way and that. "Either that, or your precious archangel cares very little for you, my dear, and will not mourn your loss. Which do you serve, I wonder? Raphael? Or the upstart, Castiel? It would be Castiel, wouldn't it? I think Raphael would kill the mother Winchester just out of spite."

Asmodeus shifted his gaze to Mary, pinning her in place. She froze in the act of picking up her shotgun, muscles tense in preparation. There came the sound of soft footsteps, and two demons arrived behind Asmodeus, then two more. Then they began to fill the hall, black eyes glittering hungrily.

"Are you afraid, mother Winchester?" Asmodeus asked, tilting his head slightly. "I think you should be. I'm not here to kill you. No, we have bigger plans for you. But first, this annoyance." He looked back down at Kadmiel and lifted his sword.

"No!" Mary cried as the blade drove downwards.

There was a sound like a tolling bell as blade met blade and Kadmiel glared up at Asmodeus with blazing eyes.

"You talk too much," she growled, and thrust a glowing palm into his belly. He flew backwards into the throng of his followers. Then the angel was next to the two women, grabbing them roughly and all but flinging them ahead of her.

The three of them pounded down the hallway, the cries of enraged demons filling the air behind them. They hit the stairs and sped down them as fast as they could, Kadmiel bringing up the rear.

"How can they even be here?" Ellen panted. "This is holy ground!"

"Not anymore," Kadmiel panted back. "Asmodeus has defiled it with his presence. And the next time I tell you to run, do as I say."

They finally reached the end of the stairs and burst into the sanctuary. Kadmiel gestured toward the side door. "Make for the gate. Head into the mountains. My brothers will find you."

"What about you?" Mary demanded.

Kadmiel shook her head. "I'll hold them here to buy you time."

Mary knew what those words meant, _knew_ that tone of voice, and wasn't having any of it. "I'm not leaving you to die here," she spat, planting her feet.

Kadmiel surprised her by grinning widely. "I have no intention of dying today, Mary Winchester. Castiel has too few allies to lose another. Go. I will join you later."

"We'll hold you to that," Ellen said firmly. Mary nodded in agreement. Kadmiel nodded back and turned to guard the stairway. The side door was unlocked, and opened to narrow steps leading down to the courtyard. On the far side of the yard stood the monastery gates, standing ajar, as they always did.

Mary glanced over her shoulder as she reached the bottom of the steps, trying to peer through the sanctuary windows to catch some glimpse of Kadmiel. Ellen passed her, leaning forward to check that the coast was clear.

"Mary!" Ellen yelled just before she shoved the younger woman back onto the steps. There was a blur of movement, a flash of black eyes, and the _snikt_ of a knife sinking into flesh. Mary looked up to see a demon yank his knife from Ellen's stomach with a snarl and raise it again.

Mary shot him in the face. When he fell, she shot him again. She was screaming, but her voice was distant, unimportant. The demon writhed on the ground, screeching in pain. Mary shot him in the face a third time, and then a fourth. After the fifth round, he didn't have much of a face left. Black smoke boiled from the pulpy mess and vanished into the sky.

Mary racked her shotgun. It was empty, and she didn't have any more ammo. She tossed it aside and dropped to one knee beside Ellen, pulling aside her jacket and shirt to examine the wound. It bled heavily, dark crimson blood. There was also a faint smell of decay; Ellen's intestines had been punctured.

"Ow," the female hunter gasped, stirring weakly.

Mary shrugged out of her jacket and wadded it up to press against the wound. "It's okay, Ellen," she said, her voice trembling. "You're gonna be fine. Kadmiel will be here any minute. She'll patch you up."

Ellen waved her hand weakly. "You gotta run, girl," she whispered. "Gotta go. Get outta here."

"Don't be an idiot, I'm not leaving you," Mary said briskly. She looked up hopefully at the sound of footsteps, only to have her heart sink in her chest. Demons began closing in on them, well over a dozen. They circled impatiently, hovering but not striking, as if they were waiting for a signal.

Mary cast around, mind racing frantically. Ellen hadn't retrieved her shotgun when they fled Asmodeus. She had no weapon, she couldn't run, and her friend was bleeding out under her hands.

"God, if you're out there," she muttered. "If you can hear me, now is the damn time."

One of the sanctuary windows overhead shattered, raining glass down on the demons below. Kadmiel landed next to Mary, stumbled, and went down to her hands and one knee. Her clothes were stained in blood, her hair matted with it. It dripped down her face and from her hands as she laboriously regained her feet.

The angel swayed slightly as she stared down the demons, her chest heaving. She bared bloody teeth at them. "What are you waiting for, you sons of filth?" she rasped.

The demons set up a howl and descended on them. Kadmiel whirled and reached down, placing one hand on Mary's head and the other on Ellen's. White light blazed around them and the ground began to shake. There was a shrill ringing and a high-pitched buzz, and then the world vanished into chaos and slaughter.

XxxXxxX

"Tilt your head forward," Jo instructed with a frown. Sam sighed and did as she instructed. He could feel her dab at the wound with a wet cloth, and he could feel the drops of water trickle through his hair, but there was still no pain, nor any symptoms of a concussion.

"Am I going to need stitches?" he asked.

"Probably," the young woman replied. "But we'll have to wait until we get to a motel for that."

They had stopped at the gas station to refuel and lick their wounds. Sam leaned against the bumper of the Impala while Jo sat on the trunk with the first aid kit laid out beside her. Dean was still inside paying.

"I'm gonna try alcohol," Jo warned him. "Let me know if you feel anything."

Sam felt her pour liquid over his scalp. There was a faint sting, but little else. "Nope," he said. "Nothing."

"This is freaking me out, Sam," she said. "How'd you go all Terminator all the sudden?"

"I have no clue," Sam replied with a shrug. "I don't...feel...like anything's wrong with me. Maybe it'll catch up with me later?"

"Maybe," Jo said doubtfully. She patted the wound dry. "It's still bleeding. I'm going to have to wrap it."

"Great," Sam muttered, not enjoying the thought of looking like a lobotomy patient.

"Well, if you didn't have so much hair, I could put a bandage on it," Jo retorted, correctly interpreting his tone. "Then again, I could always shave it."

"Don't touch my hair," Sam warned as Dean exited the tiny building and started toward them.

"Yeah, don't touch his hair, Jo," Dean said without looking up from the plastic bag in his hands. "He's like Samson. It's the source of his gigantorness. Without it he's just a wimpy little shrimp."

Sam glared half-heartedly at his brother. "Since when do you read the Bible?"

Dean looked up and snorted. "Since we started living it last year."

Sam grimaced. "Point," he conceded.

Dean pointed with his chin. "How's your noggin?"

"Still fine," Sam replied.

The bridge of Dean's nose wrinkled the way it did when he was trying to decide whether to scowl or laugh. "Yeah. It's a nice look, though. Very war survivor."

Sam reached up to scratch at the gauze Jo was wrapping around his skull but she batted his hand away. "Leave it," she ordered.

Sam scowled and reached up to tug at it again, but was distracted when he felt a faint tremor under his feet. He straightened. "Did you feel that?" he asked.

Dean was tense and uneasy, green eyes roving around them. "Yeah," he replied tightly.

"Feel what?" Jo demanded.

"The ground shook," Sam said, pushing away from the Impala. "It's still shaking," he corrected himself.

Jo hopped down from the car, planting her feet. The tremors increased, slowly but surely, until the medical supplies were rattling in the container. The three hunters instinctively went back to back, trying to find the source of danger.

"Look!" Jo suddenly cried, and pointed to the gray asphalt beneath them. A thick, black line the width of Sam's hand crawled along the pavement, arrow-straight. Another intersected it and continued on. A little further out, a third line curved in a gentle arc.

"Holy shit," Dean said slowly, turning in a circle. The lines were moving fast, and forming something big.

"It's a devil's trap," Sam murmured, eyes wide. The trap was almost closed, taking up most of the parking lot, with them inside it. The center was about fifteen feet from the Impala. As the lines began to converge, the ground shook harder, and a shrill ringing emitted from everywhere at once.

Sam had heard that sound often enough to know what it meant.

"Crap," he spat, and clamped his hands around his ears. "Angels!"

The last of the lines finally joined, and there was a flash of light as the ground lurched beneath them. Then the light, noise, and movement all cut out at once. Sam opened his eyes. The devil's trap was still there, burned into the pavement, but they were no longer the only ones in it.

Ellen lay in the exact center of the trap, Mary kneeling beside her. Mary had a wad of bloody material pressed to Ellen's stomach, and one arm flung up to shield her eyes.

"Mom!" Jo cried, and lunged forward toward her mother. As Jo dropped beside the other woman, Mary lowered her arm and blinked. She took in her new surroundings, and made eye contact with Dean.

"Call 911," she ordered sharply. "She's got a gut wound. It's bad."

Dean decided questions could wait and scrambled to get his phone from his pocket. Jo grabbed her mother's blood-slick hand and patted her cheek. "Mom," she called. "Mom, open your eyes. Hey, can you hear me?"

Ellen's eyelids fluttered and blinked open. She tried to focus on her daughter's face. "Jo," she whispered. "Hey, baby."

Jo smiled tremulously. "Hey, Mama. It's gonna be okay. There's an ambulance coming. They'll fix you right up."

Ellen reached up with her free hand to touch Jo's face. "You're a good girl, Jo," she slurred. "Always were. So proud of you." She coughed, and then gasped in pain.

"Ellen, you hang on," Mary barked. "That's an order!"

Ellen smiled, never taking her eyes off her daughter. "You'll be okay, Jo," she murmured. "You're gonna be just fine."

Jo smiled back, despite the tears trickling down her cheeks. "That's right, Mama. We're both gonna be fine. You just wait."

Ellen's smile faded and she blinked, her expression turning wistful. "Where am I going?" she asked, so softly that Jo almost couldn't hear.

Jo frowned. "Nowhere, Mama. You're not going anywhere. You're right here, with me."

Ellen wasn't seeing Jo anymore, her eyes focused on something else. "That's the rub, ain't it?" she breathed. "Never know 'til you get there."

"Dammit," Mary spat. "We're losing her! Where is that damn ambulance?"

"They're still ten minutes out," Dean called back.

"We don't _have_ ten minutes!" Mary yelled.

Jo looked up. "You have to do something," she begged Mary. "You have to save her. Please!" She looked back down at her mother. Ellen's eyes were unfocused, glassy, and her expression was slack. "Mama?" Jo called, her heart stuttering. "Mama? Mom! No, you can't...Mom! No, Please. Mama!"

Mary spat a curse and pressed her fingers against Ellen's throat, her jaw clenched. After a long moment, she sat back, letting the makeshift bandage fall away. "I'm so sorry," she told Jo hoarsely.

Jo's breathing hitched and she bowed her head as she began to sob. Dean stood over her for a moment, his expression torn, and then he crouched beside her, resting his hand on her back. Mary tried to stand and almost failed, but Sam caught her and helped her walk a few steps away. She leaned gratefully against her younger son as he wrapped his arms around her.

There was silence, broken only by Jo's weeping.

XxxXxxX

Asmodeus stood at the edge of the crater, staring across at the destruction. None of his followers had survived; merely a minor annoyance. No, what bothered him more was that he had failed to capture the Winchester matriarch. His brother would not be pleased when he reported back.

Of course, he had completely failed to anticipate the angels' determination to protect the human woman. The first angel had sacrificed her own life to ensure the human's escape, and the ones who arrived after had razed the monastery to the ground, slaying every demon they could find.

This would be a setback in their plans, but hopefully not a permanent one. After all, with the princes of Hell now walking the earth, it was only a matter of time before victory was theirs. Asmodeus smiled slightly.

Soon everything would burn.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been four hours since Ellen died.

They were holed up in an abandoned cabin, simply trying to recover. Mary succumbed to exhaustion half an hour ago, sleeping atop a tarp in one corner. Jo sat in the middle of the dirty floor, legs crossed, eyes staring at nothing. Beside her lay Ellen's body, wrapped tightly in blankets. Death is not pretty, and Sam and Dean were desperate to spare the young woman from seeing her mother like that.

Dean sat on the steps of the sagging front porch, cradling his head in his hands. Ellen was gone. He had to call Bobby. They still had to burn the body. He needed to talk to Cas. There were too many things that needed his attention but he couldn't bring himself to care about a damn one.

Ellen had been important. Ellen had been _family_.

Ellen was dead.

Jo had lost her father, her home, her childhood friend, and now her mother. She had nothing left except what little the Winchesters could offer. Jo was an orphan because Dean Winchester kept getting people he cared about killed.

Because it had been Dean who had convinced Ellen and Jo to get involved, to help them hunt down Abaddon and put an end to the whole Purgatory mess. Because it had been Dean who gave Ellen a cocky smile and told her she'd have angels to watch her back. Because he hadn't been there.

"_Dean__."_

Dean jerked his head up at the insistent, gravelly voice at his side. Castiel was sitting beside him, hands resting on his knees. His dark hair was disheveled, and his tie was loose around his neck. There were dark circles under his inhumanly blue eyes.

"Where the hell have you been, man?" Dean rasped from a dry throat.

"I was at the monastery," Castiel replied wearily. "We had to raze it to the ground."

Dean grunted. "Did you get them all?"

"Yes."

Silence fell between them, stretching for a few moments. Then Castiel sighed and broke it.

"It wasn't your fault," he said solemnly. "But I should know by now that simply telling you this will not change your feelings."

Dean grunted again, not in the mood to argue with his friend. Silence fell again. Sam returned from wherever the hell he had been, looked between his brother and the angel for a couple of seconds, and then sat down on Castiel's other side.

Dean supposed all that was left now was to get really, really plastered. He blinked when Castiel offered him a bottle of Jack Daniels. Castiel saw Dean's bemused look. "There are advantages to being an archangel," he explained. "Also, I can see your thoughts."

"Cheers," Dean mumbled, and took the bottle. After a long drink, he offered it to Sam, who accepted it without words and drank as well.

Dean wondered what it said about him that he didn't react when a woman appeared on the dried grass a few feet in front of them. She was tall, blonde hair pinned up in a bun, and wore a dark suit. He didn't need to hear the telltale sound of feathers to know she was an angel.

"General," she said briskly, her attention on Castiel. "Your presence is required."

Castiel heaved a sigh. "My presence is needed here," he replied.

The female angel looked agitated and put-out. "Sir, Raphael's forces are already on the move. We have to make plans to counter-"

"Rachel," Castiel growled, cutting her off. "I am needed here. Take your concerns to Jeremiah. I will rejoin the Host shortly."

Rachel snapped her mouth shut, seethed silently for a moment, and then vanished. Castiel sighed again.

"She is not wrong," he said apologetically. "The war demands my attention. We should begin the proceedings."

"What proceedings?" Sam spoke for the first time. Castiel replied by standing and, after a clear moment of hesitation, turned and walked into the cabin. Dean and Sam scrambled after him. Castiel walked over to Jo and touched her shoulder briefly.

"I am sorry for your loss," he told her gravely.

Jo lurched unsteadily to her feet. "Bring her back," she demanded thickly.

Castiel shook his head. "I am sorry," he said again. "I can't."

Jo balled her hands into fists. "You son of a bitch. Bring her back."

"I can't resurrect your mother," Castiel said doggedly.

Jo punched him in the chest. "She died on your watch!" she screamed at him. She punched him again. Castiel didn't try to stop her. "How could you let her die? You were supposed to protect her! _Bring__her__back__!_"

Castiel caught her wrists when she flailed at him a third time. Her face was splotchy and red, tears running down her face. "Jo," Castiel said softly. "If I could bring the dead back to life, I would. I would bring Kadmiel back. She died trying to protect your mother. I would bring back all of my brothers and sisters, hundreds of them, who have died. But I can't. I'm sorry."

Jo sobbed a breath, then another. Her eyes watered and overflowed again and finally she nodded her understanding. Castiel released her. "We would like to honor your mother. With your permission?" Jo wiped her face with her hands and nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Without any visible commands, Stephen, Anna, and Balthazar appeared in the cabin. Stephen carried a silver ewer, Anna a small golden pot, and Balthazar a folded silk sheet. In respectful silence they unfolded the blankets from around Ellen's still body. Stephen poured water from his ewer, washing the blood from Ellen's face and hands. Once he was done, Anna and Balthazar began to rewrap her in the silk sheet, sprinkling salt from the golden pot.

As the angels worked, Mary, woken by Jo's outburst, came over to stand by Sam. He held out the whiskey bottle and she took it with a grateful look, swigging back a mouthful with a wince at the burn.

Once they were done, Stephen and Balthazar picked Ellen up gently in their arms. The cabin blinked out from around them and they were in a large wooded clearing. There was a pyre of wood already waiting for them, another silk-wrapped body resting atop it.

"Kadmiel," Castiel explained to them all as Balthazar and Stephen laid Ellen to rest next to the angel's empty vessel. Anna picked up one of the wooden branches and passed her hand over the end of it. It burst into golden flames. She walked over and offered it to Jo.

Jo looked from the torch to the pyre and back, swallowing visibly. Dean walked over and squeezed her shoulder. She looked up at him, sharp and desperate. "It's okay," he said quietly. "You're not alone. I'm here."

She nodded and took the torch from Anna. Dean took her other hand and together they walked to the pyre. Jo hesitated a moment. "I love you, Mom," she whispered, and thrust the torch into the pyre. The wood caught immediately.

No one spoke until the fire burned down to ashes.

XxxXxxX

It took Mallory two hours to convince her mother that she was, in fact, fine. The headache had faded to a dull throb, and the muscles in her stomach were sore, but not unduly so. In the end Mal had to resort to pointing out the fact that Irene couldn't very well miss the fundraiser she herself had planned.

Only when she was alone did Mallory sit, cross-legged, in the middle of the living room and close her eyes. She'd been practicing this every day of the last ten weeks, and it took her only a few minutes to achieve success.

Angel radio was like being in the middle of a maelstrom. A hundred thousand voices all spoke at once, overlapping and intertwining, and Mallory was forced to hear each and every one. The first time she had accessed it (quite by accident), she had thrown up and passed out. She had done the same thing the next three times, as well.

This time, Mal was able to filter out the voices she had no need of, and find the one she wanted. "Stephen," she called. "I need to talk to you. Please come as soon as you can."

Once her message was sent and received, Mal surfaced as soon as she could. Despite her Grace, she was still at least half human, and her mind simply wasn't meant to withstand such means of communications.

It took Stephen three minutes to arrive. His blonde hair was, as usual, in disarray, and his black clothing smelled like smoke. Mallory scrambled to her feet.

"What's wrong with Sam?" she demanded before he had the chance to say something. "He got hurt last night and now he's...he's all broken up inside. I can feel him. He's grieving. What the hell is going on?"

Stephen stared at her, caught off-guard. Then he sighed, his shoulders drooping. "Ellen Harvelle was killed yesterday," he told her.

Mallory felt her insides freeze. "What did you just say?" she asked slowly, dangerously.

Stephen gave her a suddenly uneasy look. "Ellen Harvelle was killed by demons yesterday," he repeated unhappily. "Kadmiel was caught off-guard. She was unable to save Ellen, and perished in the attempt."

Mallory had never particularly liked Kadmiel, but the pain in her chest deepened, just a little. "Where are the others?" she asked softly.

"Sam, Dean, Mary, and Jo are in Lynchburg, Virginia," Stephen replied.

Mal met his gaze with steely eyes. "Take me there. Now."

"My orders are to keep you safe, here," Stephen said bravely.

Mal tilted her head slightly. "Fine." She turned and stalked out of the living room. Stephen blinked after her for a moment, and then followed, unsure of her intent. She prowled through the apartment until she reached a linen closet, and then opened the door. Summoning her sword, she slashed the blade across the palm of her left hand.

Stephen realized her intent too late. He lunged forward to try to stop her, but she slammed her hand against the sigil drawn on the inside of the door. There was a bright flash of light, and Stephen was swept away.

Mal opened her eyes when the light faded. The sigil was seared into the door, the edges still glowing. She clenched her left hand into a fist and headed towards her bathroom. Once there, she stripped her shirt over her head. The wound on her hand, caused by an angel blade, was still bleeding, so she used the blood to draw on her chest and stomach, symbols and runes she had spent the last two months searching out.

When she was done with the blood, she moved on to holy oil, and then to ink made with holy water. When she was finally completed, the wards covered her chest, stomach, and arms, with barely any skin showing. Then she went in search of her cell phone.

He answered on the second ring. "Hello?" His voice was tired and raspy. It sounded like he might have been crying.

"Sam, I want you to come get me," Mallory said, keeping her voice flat and unemotional. Tears would come later. For now she had work to do.

"Mal?" Sam asked in disbelief. "What are you-? Did you-?"

"Stephen told me about Ellen," Mal interrupted his stuttering. "You need to come get me."

"I can't," he said. "I mean, it's better if you stayed-"

She interrupted him again. "Sam, I've already banished Stephen for telling me the same thing. I've completely warded myself from all angelic senses. If you do not come get me, I will start walking, and I will banish any angel who does manage to find me. You have four hours to get here. Start driving."

Mallory hung up and sent a text message. Then she found an old gym bag and stowed the phone in a side pocket. If she kept it on her person, it would die in a matter of days. She'd gone through several phones already. She grabbed a few articles of clothing, her journals, and an extra pair of shoes, shoving them all into the bag. She retrieved her shirt and, since the wards were now dry, put it back on, as well as her favorite jacket.

She left a terse note to her mother, explaining the situation and bidding her farewell. Then she left the apartment, locking the door behind her, and headed to the Metro station. It being early afternoon, the Metro was relatively empty, and Mallory was left in peace. She disembarked at her station and headed to the escalators.

As she emerged at street-level, something at the corner of her eye caused her to turn sharply to her left. Across the street, a sign outside a hotel advertised in large, garish colors: "ASYLUM 4 SUPERNATURAL CONVENTION."

Mal stood rooted to the sidewalk, clutching the strap of her gym bag. "Oh, hell no," she breathed, and stalked over to the hotel's entrance. The signs led her to the hotel's grand ballroom, where an attendant intercepted her.

"Miss, you need a badge," he tried to protest.

"Where is Becky?" Mal cut him off impatiently. She scanned the crowd through the doorway, trying to find the woman among the booths. "Becky Rosen. I know she's here. Where is she?"

"I don't know if-" the attendant began.

"Find her!" Mal barked, allowing some of her power to leak into her voice. The attendant jumped and scuttled off, throwing a frightened look over his shoulder. Mal waited in seething silence until he came scuttling back, a brunette woman in tow.

"Mallory!" Becky greeted with a bright smile. "What on earth are you doing here? I didn't call you! Did you find it on your own? That's so amazing that you wanted to come. I've got to tell you, the new books are such a hit, and your character is so controversial, you would not believe how many forum threads are solely dedicated to discussing you."

"What the hell is this?" Mallory growled, stepping into the taller woman's personal space.

Becky's grin fell. "It's a convention," she said uncertainly. "We hold them all over the country."

"We said we were done with the books," Mal snapped. "I thought we made that clear."

Becky put her hands on her hips. "Well, _you_ might be done with the books, but the fans sure aren't. Most of the conventions are fan-organized. I'm just the guest of honor here."

Mal rubbed her forehead. "How far do the books go?" she asked, her anger abruptly abandoning her. "Where do they end?"

"With Sam and Dean going to Hell to stop Michael and Lucifer," Becky replied. "Which reminds me, you _still_ haven't told me how they got out."

Mal dropped her hand. "I don't want to get into it," she said tersely.

"Oh, come on," Becky wheedled. "I'm the executor of Chuck's copyright! I deserve to know!"

"No, you don't," Mal said firmly. She checked her watch. "I'm meeting someone in ten minutes. I really don't need to deal with this crap right now." As she turned to leave, Becky reached out and caught her arm.

"I watched the news coverage of your hearings," she said in a low voice.

Mallory jerked her arm out of Becky's grasp and glared at the older woman. Before she could curtly inform Becky that she had no desire to discuss it, another voice interrupted them.

"Ms. Graves? What are you doing here?"

Mal's head whipped around. "_Wendell_?" she demanded. It was indeed the conservator who worked in the Smithsonian research room Mal had frequented over the past two months. He was wearing a convention badge around his neck.

He gave her a cautious grin. "Don't tell me you're a fan, too?"

"You're here for the convention?" Mal asked, flabbergasted.

Wendell shrugged sheepishly. "Yeah, I'm a bit of a secret nerd. I liked the books. What about you?"

"Uh, no, not really," Mal stuttered. "I mean, I haven't read any of them, actually. I just...came to talk to Becky."

"Oh yes, Ms, Rosen," Wendell beamed. "Isn't she amazing? She's spoken at every convention this year so far."

Becky blushed prettily and smoothed the front of her skirt. Mal resisted the urge to rub her forehead again. "Um, Wendell, could you get me a drink of water?" Mal requested. "I need to speak to Becky in private."

"Oh, of course," Wendell said in a rush. "Be happy to. Back in a tick."

Once he was safely out of earshot, Mal turned back to Becky. "I don't care about the books," she said flatly. "I don't care about what you've read. My private life is off limits to discussion. And that includes fanfiction. Sam warned me about that. I've seen some, and frankly, it's awful. If I find out you've been writing more about my life, I will come after you."

Becky's eyes widened and she looked as if she wasn't sure if she should take Mallory seriously or not. "So I suppose I can't ask what happened to Amitiel, either?" she said in a tiny voice.

"She's dead," Mal bit out, and took a breath to continue, but Wendell appeared with a plastic cup. "Thank you," she told him softly, and took a couple of sips to help her cool down. She checked her watch again. "Dammit, I'm going to be late," she muttered. She handed the cup back to Wendell.

"I have to go," she announced. "It was good seeing you, Wendell." She turned to give Becky a hard look. "I hope we won't have any problems in the future."

She made it to the entrance of the hotel before Becky caught up with her again. "Mallory, wait!" Mal repressed the urge to snap and turned around to face Becky. She had to fight off a sudden swoop of dizziness that caught her completely off-guard.

"What?" she demanded almost plaintively, only wanting to escape at this point.

"You know that I care, right?" Becky blurted. "About the story, I mean. About the characters. Sam and Dean...and you. I'm not just doing this because I'm a super-fan, which I am, but that's not the point. The point is getting your story out. I mean, you guys saved the world, and you deserve to have everyone know that, even if they think it's just a story. Even if people don't think you're real, you still deserve to have them think you're amazing."

Becky's rambling left Mal blinking in surprise, brain racing to catch up. She shook her head to clear it but when that didn't work, she rubbed her eyes. "I'm not sure," she said slowly. "But was that actually kind of a nice sentiment?"

Becky tittered nervously and Mallory suddenly felt terrible. She had been a bitch to Becky from almost the beginning, never really giving the other woman a chance. She dropped her hand and opened her mouth to apologize, only to have the sidewalk leap up and smack her hard in the face.

It hurt for only a second, and then she didn't feel anything at all.


	5. Chapter 5

Emily Prentiss took another sip of her coffee and checked her watch. Mallory was late. The young woman's text had sounded urgent; she had wanted to meet immediately. Emily tried not to worry too much; the girl had gone through a great deal in the last year.

The two of them had stayed in constant contact since they'd met over two months ago, when Mallory had been kidnapped by the demon Meg. Meg had videotaped herself torturing Mallory and had posted it online. Emily's team of FBI profilers had been dispatched to solve the case.

It hadn't turned out the way she'd expected.

After fighting off an army of demons in a hospital, Emily's view of the world had been turned upside down. Mallory had been helping her to handle it, teaching her more about the supernatural, about monsters and ghosts, and how to deal with them.

Emily checked her watch again and glanced around the small outdoor cafe. Mallory was going on twenty minutes late, and the girl was usually nothing if not punctual. While anyone else may have simply assumed an innocuous explanation, Emily had seen too many horrible things, both normal and paranormal, to make innocent assumptions.

When Mallory didn't answer her cell phone, Emily headed to the nearest Metro station. She'd been to the penthouse Mallory shared with her mother several times, and that's where she would begin. She didn't worry, not yet, but that didn't mean she wouldn't start later.

Emily used her FBI badge to get around the building security, but no one answered when she knocked on the apartment door. She frowned and tried Mallory's cell phone again. Still no answer. Concern was starting to creep in. With Mallory's track record, it was entirely possible something bad had happened. Seriously, Emily didn't know anyone who had been kidnapped as many times as Mallory.

The elevator dinged and Emily turned, hoping it was the young woman. It was, instead, her mother, wearing a formal gown, the white-blonde hair she shared with her daughter coiffed perfectly. "Agent Prentiss," Irene said, coming to an abrupt halt. "Is everything alright?"

"I'm sure it is," Emily hurried to assure her. "Mallory asked to meet me and didn't show up. I came to see if she was okay."

"She wasn't feeling well last night," Irene said, relaxing slightly. "She must have just fallen asleep again."

"I hope so," Emily said with a smile.

Irene walked over to unlock the door. "I was at a fundraising event, but I couldn't stop worrying about her, so I left early. Please, come in."

Emily followed Irene into the apartment. "I'll check her bedroom," Irene said, putting her keys and purse down. "Make yourself at home."

As Irene disappeared down the hallway, Emily wandered into the kitchen, automatically noting small details. A profiler was never off the job. That was why she noticed the plain, white envelope sitting on the counter, printed with the words: "Mom, Read This Immediately."

It was Mallory's handwriting.

Emily's stomach clenched as she picked up the envelope and stared at the neat handwriting. Irene came into the kitchen, sans shoes and wearing a concerned expression. "She's not in her room, and I can't find her," she said, sounding a little panicked. Emily handed the envelope over wordlessly.

In her haste, Irene tore the envelope, snatching out the letter inside. "Oh, God," she whispered when she was done reading. She shoved it in Emily's direction. It was short and to the point, only a few sentences long: "_Ellen died last night. I'm going back to Sam and the others. I'll call when I get there. I love you._"

"Can you find her?" Irene demanded.

"I'll do my best," Emily promised, already pulling out her phone. Garcia picked up on the second ring.

"Hey, girlfriend," the tech agent chirped happily. "What can I do for you on your day off and you better not be working or so help me I will beat you with a feather duster."

"Garcia, I need you to trace Mallory Graves' phone, now," Emily said seriously. "Her number is-"

"I have her number," Garcia cut her off, picking up on Emily's tone. "What happened? Is she okay?"

"I don't know," Emily replied. "She's sort of missing."

"_Again_?" Emily could hear Garcia's manicured nails clacking against her keyboard. "That girl needs a GPS bolted around her neck. I'm sorry, sugar, but her cell must be turned off, I'm not picking anything up. Do you want me to alert the rest of the team?"

"Not yet," Emily said, rubbing her forehead. "There's no reason to suspect she's in danger; she left of her own will. Could you monitor her phone and let me know when you get a hit?"

"I'm on it like a tick on a dog, which is a rather disgusting mental image, by the way, but gets my point across. Anything else I can do?"

"Yes, actually," Emily said, an idea striking her. "Mallory has a Metro Pass card. Can you pull up the records and see if she used it today, and where?"

"If it's digital, I can find it," Garcia said confidently. "I'll even link in to the CCTV and get you a visual. Garcia out."

"I've got our best analyst tracking her down," Emily told Irene after she hung up. "I'm going to call Sam and see if he's heard from her, too."

"Okay," Irene said. "I'm friends with the DC Chief of Police. I'll ask him to have them keep an eye out for her."

"Do that," Emily replied, and dialed Sam Winchester's number.

"Hello?" he answered, his tone sharp. Emily forgave him for that; she remembered Ellen Harvelle and how close she was to the Winchesters.

"Sam, it's Emily Prentiss."

"Agent Prentiss. Sorry. It's kinda been a long few days."

"I heard. I'm sorry about Mrs. Harvelle."

"How did you-you've spoken to Mal?"

"Indirectly. That's what I'm calling you about. Have you heard from her lately?"

"Yes. She called about an hour ago, asking me to come pick her up. Why? Is something wrong?" His voice sharpened again, demanding and urgent.

"I don't know yet," Emily admitted. "She asked to meet me and didn't show up. She's not at home and not answering her cell phone."

"I'm about three hours out," Sam replied. "Where should I meet you?"

Emily gave him the address of the penthouse and ended the call. As soon as she did, Garcia's name popped up on the screen of her phone.

"You're in luck, sweets," Garcia started before Emily could speak. "Her Metro Pass was used today about forty-five minutes ago. I've got security footage of her coming and going."

"What station did she get off at?" Emily demanded.

Garcia told her, and then added, "She took the escalator, stopped for a minute, and turned left to cross the street. Something must have caught her eye, because she looks pretty pissed off."

"Thanks, Garcia. I'll keep you updated."

Irene came back into the room and Emily informed her of everything she had just learned. "Let me grab a better pair of shoes," Irene said, and they left the apartment a few minutes later, taking Irene's car instead of the Metro.

Once they arrived at the station, they stood on the sidewalk at the entrance and looked around. "Garcia said Mallory turned left and crossed the street," Emily said, mimicking the movements. "There's a hotel. Did she see someone she knows?"

"No," Irene said, and pointed at the sign.

"Supernatural convention?" Emily read out loud. "Wait, I remember that. Meg posted the videos on the Supernatural book website." She frowned. "What's the connection, though? Why would she get upset about a book convention?"

"Because they're about her," Irene said grimly. Emily turned to stare. "Well, about the Winchesters, actually, but Mallory's in them," Irene explained.

Emily blinked for a few seconds. "Someone wrote books about the Winchesters?" she asked in disbelief.

Irene nodded with a sigh. "Someone named Chuck. Mallory hates them and won't let me read them, but she's mentioned them a few times."

"The FBI searched for Sam and Dean for _months_, and they let someone write their biography?"

"Not exactly," Irene answered. "From what Mallory told me, Chuck was a prophet."

Emily blinked a few more times, and Irene shrugged. "I don't believe it, either, but there's been a lot of things lately that have happened, whether I believe in them or not," she said sadly.

Emily pulled herself back together with some effort. "Do you have a picture of Mallory?" she asked Irene. Irene dug in her purse for a moment and came up with a small photo of her daughter. Emily took it and headed across to the hotel.

They were stopped at the entrance to the grand ballroom by a nervous-looking attendant. "You can't go in without a badge!" he insisted.

"I've already got one," Emily replied, flashing her FBI credentials. She held up the photo of Mallory. "Have you seen this woman? She'll look a little different. Her hair is shorter."

"Oh, my God, I knew she was dangerous," the attendant blurted before Emily finished speaking. "She's dangerous, isn't she? Is she a murderer?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Irene snapped, stepping forward. "She's my daughter, and she hasn't done anything wrong, she's _missing_."

"No, she's not, she was in here, like, an hour ago," the attendant replied. "She's one scary bi-" he clearly thought better of his words and snapped his mouth shut.

"Did you see her leave?" Emily interjected smoothly before Irene could express the emotions that were clearly displayed across her face.

"Yeah. She talked with Ms. Rosen and this guy for a few minutes, and then they all left."

"And Ms. Rosen's first name would be?" Emily pressed. The attendant gave her a funny look and pointed at the nearby banner. It announced in large letters: _Guest of Honor, Becky Rosen_. Emily nodded slightly. "Ah. And would you happen to know which 'guy' they were talking to?"

The attendant shook his head. "No, sorry. Just one of the convention guests. He had a badge."

"Thank you for your time," Emily said dutifully, and walked a few steps away.

"Can't you ask the hotel for their security tapes?" Irene demanded. She fussed at her hair for a moment, and then started pulling out the pins holding it up.

"They won't give them up without a warrant, and I won't get one," Emily told her. "Mallory can't be classified as missing for at least twenty-four hours."

"Anything could have happened to her by then!" Irene protested.

"I know," Emily said, pulling out her phone. "That's why I'm going to have Garcia dig up everything she can about Becky Rosen."

Becky Rosen's hotel room turned out to be a bust; there was no obvious connection between her and Mallory, or evidence of any reason they would have left together. Despite Irene's mounting agitation, the two women returned to the Graves' penthouse to await Sam's arrival.

His estimated time had been accurate, and Emily let him into the apartment after Irene had buzzed him up. "Any word from Mal?" he demanded immediately.

"Not yet," Emily replied, sizing him up. She'd forgotten how big the young man was, and even though she knew (intellectually, at least) that he was one of the good guys, his presence was still incredibly intimidating. "Is there any reason Mallory would have gone off with a woman named Becky Rosen?"

Sam blinked, surprised, and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Becky? What is she doing in town?"

"Supernatural book convention," Irene explained, crossing her arms. She'd taken the time to change out of her gown, choosing a worn button-up shirt a few sizes too large. With her hair braided down her back, she looked disconcertingly like her daughter.

Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No. Mal and Becky don't get along. Like, at all. If the two of them were in the same room together, it would end with yelling and probably violence."

Emily was taken slightly aback. Despite seeing Mal attack several members of a police SWAT force, she had never considered the girl all that violent. "What happened between the two of them?"

Sam dropped his hand. "Becky originally thought Mal was a bad plot addition," he said wearily. "Where is Becky? I guess I have to talk to her."

Emily shook her head. "She's missing, too."

"Son of a bitch," Sam muttered. He ran his fingers through his hair. "Mal, what the hell were you thinking?" He licked his lower lip and then continued, "Mal warded herself against angels, I already asked Cas to look for her. He can't even sense her. We're on our own."

"Great," Emily sighed. "So what's our next move?"

XxxXxxX

The world resolved itself into a gray-brown blur and a hard, gritty floor. Mal blinked a few times, head muddled, and tried to figure out why her eyes weren't working. She finally recognized the lingering effects of a sedative and reached for her Grace to purge the drugs from her system.

The dull blur focused and became a rundown room with graying, peeling wallpaper and dirty windows. Mal was lying on her side, her hands cuffed together. She frowned at the bindings for a moment. She didn't remember how she got here. She didn't know why, or who had drugged her. She raised her head off the rough wood floor to look around.

Becky Rosen was crouched against the wall in one corner. Her hands were bound together with duct tape, and there was more across her mouth. Her eyes were wild and frightened, and she was making muffled whimpering sounds.

Mal frowned even harder. What was Becky doing here? She hadn't seen the other woman for months...hadn't she? No, something jogged at Mal's patchy memory. The hotel...a convention...

Ellen was dead.

The memory returned with such force that tears sprang to Mal's eyes. Ellen was dead and Mal was done hiding behind the dubious safety of her mother. She was finished playing along with Sam and Castiel's chivalric attempts to keep her safe. If her friends were putting themselves in danger, if her friends were dying, then she was going to be there with them.

With an annoyed grunt, Mal snapped the handcuff chain, leaving the metal circles around her wrists for the moment. She levered herself up and had to pause when the room spun around her. She gritted her teeth and forced her body to come to heel. Then she got up and crossed over to Becky.

She peeled the tape back from Becky's mouth. "Oh, my God, he's going to kill us, he's some kind of psycho, what are we going to do, why is he doing this to us, I don't even know him-mph!"

Mal pressed her hand over Becky's mouth to stop the flow of words. "Becky, shut up," she said, trying her best to keep her voice calm and even. "I think I've been drugged. Were you given anything?" Becky shook her head tremulously. "So you saw who took us?" Mal pressed. Becky nodded. "Okay. I need you to stay calm, and tell me who it was. Can you do that?" Becky nodded again. Mal gingerly lifted her hand.

"It was him, the guy at the convention. You knew him," Becky babbled.

Mal stared at her. "Wait, you mean _Wendell?_"

There were footsteps outside the room and Mal spun to her feet, only to stumble when the room didn't stop moving. Wendell stood in the doorway, Mal's gym bag in one hand and a duffel over one shoulder.

"You're awake," he said, preternaturally calm. "I didn't expect you to wake up for another few hours."

"Wendell, what the hell is going on?" Mal demanded, staring at the young man in confusion.

Wendell glanced out the window. "It'll be dark soon. You'll understand everything then."


	6. Chapter 6

Mallory didn't think there was anything that could take her off-guard anymore. Not after having the memories of an angel stuffed into her head. But at this moment she couldn't do anything but stare blankly at the young man in front of her, completely bewildered.

"Wendell," she said slowly. "What the _hell_ is going on?"

He stepped into the room and dropped the bags he was carrying. "I've been waiting for weeks, you know," he said, staring fixedly at Mal. "I wanted to tell you. But the time wasn't right."

Becky started whimpering again, and Mal wanted to snap at her to shut up, but she left the other woman alone for the moment. "Tell me what?" Mal was desperately trying to make sense of the situation, but was coming up empty.

"That I knew who you were," Wendell explained, never taking his eyes off Mallory. "Who you really were. I knew from the moment I saw you. You fit the description so well, and then I saw what you were researching. Then there was the grand jury hearing and it was just so perfect."

He took several steps forward and Mal stepped back, trying to keep the distance between them. She felt threatened, there was no mistaking that. He'd drugged and restrained her. But he was human, and Mal didn't want to hurt him if she didn't have to.

"Don't you see?" Wendell said earnestly. "I know who you are, Mallory. You don't have to hide anymore."

Mal eyed him uneasily. "And who am I supposed to be, Wendell?"

"You're Mallory, from the books," he went on. "The vessel of Amitiel. I knew it was you. I did everything to get close to you."

Mal finally realized what was going on and buried her face in one hand. Wendell had been remarkably solicitous since the moment they'd met, going out of his way to accommodate her every need. She had often looked up from her books to find a bottle of water next to her elbow, which is why she'd been so trusting this time.

"You drugged me," she said, squeezing her forehead.

Had she been looking, she would have seen Wendell's shoulders droop. "I didn't know how else to get you here," he said plaintively.

"Wendell," Mallory said, her voice turning dangerous. "I'm almost four months pregnant, and you _drugged_ me." She lifted her head and glared at him, pinpoints of light sparking from her pupils.

Becky squeaked behind Mal, and Wendell's mouth dropped open. "You're-what? I..I didn't know," Wendell stammered. "I never meant to hurt you! I just wanted to make you _see_."

"See what?" Mal asked carefully through gritted teeth. Her skin felt uncomfortably hot and tight, and she knew she needed to get a handle on her power before she lost control.

"That I'm just as good as they are," Wendell replied. He dropped to one knee, digging through his duffel bag. "Look. I've got everything." He pulled out a sawed-off shotgun, a canister of salt, and a bottle of lighter fluid. "I've read all the books, I know what I'm doing."

"A ghost hunt?" Mal asked in disbelief. "You dragged me out here for a freaking ghost hunt?"

"I did all the research," Wendell blurted. "The spirit that haunts this place. A woman named Rosalee Wilkins. Her husband murdered her in this very house but they never found her body. They say he hid it somewhere in the house."

Mal shook her head. "No," she snapped. "I'm not doing this. I am taking Becky, and I'm leaving."

Wendell lunged to his feet, the shotgun in his hands. "You have to stay!" he insisted, swinging the gun in Mal's general direction. "You can't go. Not yet."

Mal reached out with her right hand, clenched it into a fist, and yanked it back. The shotgun ripped itself out of Wendell's hands and flew through the air. Mal caught it easily.

"I said," she repeated flatly. "I'm leaving." She turned and walked back over to Becky. It only took her a few seconds to rip the tape binding the woman's hands together and haul Becky to her feet.

"How did you do that?" Becky demanded, eyes wide. "How can you-but you're not-!"

"Shut up," Mal muttered and pushed Becky toward the front door. "I'll explain later...maybe. Let's just get out of here first."

Becky reached the front door and tried the handle. "It's locked!" she wailed. Mal grunted, pushed her out of the way, and grabbed the handle. She broke the lock with a twist of her wrist and pushed. The door didn't budge.

"Dammit," Mal spat, and shoved her shoulder into the door. It still didn't give.

"It's the spirit," Wendell said from behind them. Mal spun around to face him. "It's sealed us in with her," he continued. He looked almost gleeful.

"Great," Mal growled. "Just fucking great." She stalked forward, her expression thunderous. Wendell's eyes widened. Mallory was not a threatening figure. She was only a couple of inches over five feet and very slightly built. But the very air around her crackled with the force of her anger and Wendell abruptly started having second thoughts about what he'd done.

"You thought it would be a good idea to _kidnap_ someone and seal them in a house with a _vengeful__spirit_," Mal hissed as she approached Wendell. "All because of a stupid book series you read." Wendell hastily backed away until he hit a wall. Mal didn't stop until she was practically nose-to-nose with him.

"The only reason you're still breathing is because I don't kill humans," Mal told him in a deadly voice. Wendell swallowed. "Where is my bag?" she demanded.

He was too scared to talk. He sort of jerked his head back towards the living room. Mallory prowled over and found her gym bag lying in the corner. Her cell phone was still in the side pocket, turned off to protect it against the electromagnetic field she was constantly generating. She hesitated after turning it on, but the safety of her unborn child and innocent bystanders overruled her pride.

She sighed, hit speed-dial 2, and waited for Sam to pick up.

XxxXxxX

Sam snatched his ringing phone out of his pocket so fast he nearly dropped it, and grinned in relief at the name flashing on the screen. "It's Mal!" he announced to the room in general as he answered it. Emily whipped her own phone out and was talking to Garcia in seconds.

"Mal, are you okay?" Sam demanded.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "I'm fine," came Mal's hesitant reply.

"Thank God," Sam breathed. "Where the hell are you?" Irene strode toward Sam, her hand outstretched demandingly. Sam waved her off with a look, but she only glared back at him.

"I don't know," Mal said. Sam heard her move away from the phone. "_Where__are__we__?_" she asked someone else. Sam managed to catch a muffled voice, but couldn't make out the words. "_I__swear__to__God__, __Wendell__, __if__you__don__'__t__-_" There was a thump and a high-pitched yelp, and then Mal was back on the line. "Yeah, I don't know where we are, sorry."

"Is she okay?" Irene demanded. "Let me talk to her."

"Agent Prentiss has someone tracing your phone," Sam ignored Irene and glanced at the profiler to confirm. Emily nodded and waved her hand. "You need to stay on the line for a few more minutes. What's going on, Mal?"

"Umm..." Mal hesitated again. "Someone I know decided to go on a ghost hunt and we got dragged along."

"We?" Sam echoed. "Is Becky with you?"

"Yeah," Mal sighed, clearly unhappy about that. "We're okay. For now, at least. The spirit sealed us in. We can't get out of the house."

Sam's anxiety jumped ten notches. "What do you have with you?" he asked.

"What is going on?" Irene set her hands on her hips. "Damn it, Sam, give me the phone!"

"I need to-give me a minute," he snapped distractedly at her.

"We have salt and lighter fluid," Mal replied, ignorant of his confrontation with her mother. "I think I can hold it off for now, but I'd prefer you to...crap. _What__the__hell__was__that__?_"

"Mal?" Sam demanded, clutching the phone tighter. Irene grabbed his sleeve and yanked hard to get his attention.

"Sam, I-" Mal's voice abruptly vanished as the call terminated.

"Dammit," Sam snarled, just barely stopping himself from flinging the offending object across the room. Irene's expression was thunderous, but before she could tear into Sam, Emily interrupted them triumphantly.

"We've got an address! It's a residence in Virginia, about an hour out."

Sam shoved his phone into his pocket. "Let's go," he ordered, already heading for the door.

XxxXxxX

Mal clutched the now-dead phone in one hand as she stared nervously up at the flickering lights overhead. Her breath billowed out in a visible cloud. Just before her phone had died, the temperature had plunged twenty degrees, and though she felt no physical discomfort from the cold, a shiver of apprehension ran down Mal's spine.

"Becky!" she called, dropping the phone and checking the chamber of the shotgun. "Becky, get over here!"

Becky stumbled into the living room. "Ohmygod," she babbled. "We're gonna die! It's here, the ghost is here, it's going to kill us."

"Shut up," Mal told her again. "And stay close to me. Wendell, make yourself useful and lay down salt lines around the perimeter of this room."

Wendell eyed the shotgun in her hands as he picked up one of the cans of salt. "We could be a great team, you know," he said wistfully.

Mallory racked the shotgun noisily. "Don't count on it."

He sighed and crouched to pour salt out onto the dirty, wooden floor. There was a flicker of movement, and Mal's angel senses set off alarm bells in her head. "Get down!" she barked as a gray, washed-out figure appeared behind Wendell. He straightened and spun around, dropping the salt.

The ghost backhanded the young man almost casually, sending him crashing into the wall. Mal took aim and fired, but the apparition was too fast. It winked out and reappeared directly behind Becky. Before the woman could scream, the ghost snaked an arm around her neck and squeezed.

Mal pumped the shotgun and took a step to the side to try to get a better shot, but the spirit twisted, using Becky as a shield. Mal had to assume that Wendell was correct, that this was Rosalee Wilkins. It did have the shape of a woman, wearing a Victorian-era gown. Its face was twisted and grotesque, eyes sunken and without vestige of humanity.

"Ah, ah, ah," the spirit taunted in a creaky voice. "Naughty little girl. Must do as she's told."

Mal didn't move for fear of antagonizing the ghost. Could it be antagonized? What were its motivations? How much intelligence did it have left? Mal simply didn't know. She'd never encountered a ghost before, and apparently, neither had Amitiel, because her mind was drawing a blank.

"Becky," she whispered. "Don't move. Stay calm." Becky's eyes and mouth were wide open but she managed to stay quiet as tears ran down her cheek. Rosalee Wilkins sneered at Mallory.

"Musn't make a fuss," the spirit croaked. "Musn't break the rules. _Do__as__you__'__re__told_!"

With a cry that betrayed his intentions before he even completed them, Wendell charged the spirit, armed only with a canister of salt. He flung a handful of the white grains at Rosalee, but the ghost merely teleported itself out of the way. It released Becky and flashed across the room to grab Wendell by the throat. Before Mal could fire again, the spirit's fingers sunk under Wendell's skin. Rosalee yanked backwards, tearing out a good portion of Wendell's esophagus in a spray of blood.

"Musn't speak out of turn!" it shrieked.

Becky screamed, high and frantic. Mal pulled the trigger and Rosalee vanished in a burst of mist and salt. Mal didn't bother going over to check on Wendell; she could see he was already dead.

"Dammit," Mal muttered and strode over to snatch up the bag with the lighter fluid and remaining salt. As she returned to Becky, she felt the floor shake underfoot. The vibration rapidly increased to violent tremors, cracks appearing in the walls and ceiling.

"_Mustn__'__t__make__a__sound__!_" Rosalee's voice screeched from all around them. "_Mustn__'__t__break__the__rules__!_"

"Come on!" Mal yelled at Becky over the sound of the trembling house. "We've got to get out of here!"

One arm supporting Becky and the other still holding the shotgun, Mal somehow managed to get them out of the living room and to the front door. It was still sealed. Plaster dust rained down on them as wood cracked and splintered ominously.

Mal let go of Becky and swung the butt of the shotgun at a nearby window with all her Grace-augmented strength. The window cracked, but didn't shatter. She swung again. More cracks spiderwebbed across the glass, but it stayed in the frame.

A great splintering noise overhead was all the warning Mal got before a wooden beam fell through the ceiling. She flung herself out of the way but it still clipped her shoulder, knocking the shotgun out of her hands. The beam slammed into the floor, snapping the wooden slats like twigs. The structural integrity was already compromised, and under this new assault the floor completely gave way.

Mal had time to cry out once before she crashed down into the darkness. She landed on her back, the breath driven from her lungs. There was still debris falling onto her, so she raised her hands over her head, coughing and gasping painfully. The air was choked with dust, and it coated her mouth and throat.

When everything was still, Mal carefully lifted her head and lowered her arms. She was in some kind of windowless cellar or basement, with dirt walls and floor. There was a gaping hole above them where the upper story floor had been. Rickety, wooden shelves had been crushed by the falling wreckage, and the basement was nearly filled with rubble.

Mal turned her senses inward and made a cursory examination of her injuries. Bruises, cuts, scrapes, some quite nasty, but nothing that would handicap her. More importantly, Ami's tiny, bright soul glowed with reassuring calm, undamaged and undimmed. Only then did Mallory begin to dig her way out from under the rubble, wincing at the various aches and pains.

"Hello?" came Becky's quavering voice. "Mallory? Are you there?"

"I'm here!" Mal called back. "Where are you?"

"I don't know," Becky sobbed. "I can't see!"

Mal blinked. She hadn't noticed the absence of light in the basement, as she could see in the dark just as easily. Holding up one hand, she spoke in what she hoped was a commanding voice. "_Micaloz_!"

Green-gold light flared into existence around Mal, flooding the basement with luminescence. She heard Becky's gasp of surprise, and used the sound to pinpoint the woman's location. Mal scrambled over the wreckage to the corner of the basement where Becky lay trapped under a support beam.

"Where is the light coming from?" Becky demanded, her eyes wide. Her face was smeared with dirt and blood.

"Me," Mallory explained shortly as she crouched to examine the rubble. The beam wasn't on top of Becky, merely pinning her too close to the wall to wriggle free. If it could be lifted, Becky could easily slip out from under it. "Becky, when I say so, I need you to crawl forward, okay?"

Becky stared wildly up at Mal. "But how are you doing that? You don't have a flashlight."

"_Becky_!" Mal snapped. "Focus! Can you crawl forward?"

She blinked. "I-I think so," she stammered. Mal searched under the beam for a good handhold. She grimaced. She'd never tested the limit of her new strength, but she had the feeling this would. She took a deep breath, tensed her shoulders, and pushed up with her legs. The beam groaned, resisted for a second, and then began to shift upwards, inch by inch.

"Now, Becky!" Mal panted. "Now now now!"

Becky hastily scrambled forward, clawing at the dirt floor in her haste. The second she was clear, Mal dropped the beam, snatching her foot out of the way just in time. She collapsed onto her backside, muscles groaning in protest. She looked over to check on Becky to find the other women staring at her in fear and confusion.

"What _are_ you?" Becky whispered.

Mal got laboriously to her feet. She stepped toward Becky to offer her a hand up, but Becky flinched away. Mal stopped, feeling inexplicably hurt. "I'm still me, Becky," she said softly. "I've just got some new tricks. Come on. I'm going to get you out of here." She reached for Becky again, and this time Becky didn't resist.

Mal looked around and pointed. "There." She could see a pair of cellar doors at the top of a steep flight of stairs. As they picked their way through the debris, Becky tripped and went down with a short cry. Mal stooped to help her up, and caught sight of what Becky had stumbled over.

It was a large bundle of gray, moldering cloth, about the size and shape of a body. "Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me," Mal said, frozen in place. As she spoke, her breath condensed into a frosty cloud. "Shit!"

Rosalee materialized in front of Mal, wielding a rusty, metal pipe. With a scream of rage, the apparition flashed toward Mal, faster than humanly possible. Mal barely managed to bat the pipe away from her heart before Rosalee drove it into her shoulder.

Mal felt her collarbone snap with a burst of white-hot agony. The force of the blow flung her off her feet, backward into a pile of broken wood. The fall jarred the pipe protruding from her shoulder and Mal had to fight not to black out from the pain. She reached for her Grace and poured it into her injured body, drawing on it until the edge of her vision glowed white with power.

Rosalee stood over Becky, reaching down toward the woman's throat. "Musn't break the rules!" the spirit cackled. "Musn't make a fuss!"

Mal extended her hand toward the cloth-wrapped corpse. "_Ialprt_!" she cried in a ringing voice.

The corpse erupted in golden flames, and Rosalee screamed as the apparition disintegrated into a shower of orange sparks.

The last thing Mal saw before falling into unconsciousness were the golden flames starting to consume the pile of dry, wooden debris.


End file.
